The Rosebush Murders (Helen Mirkin 1)

By Ruth Shidlo

In this first Helen Mirkin novel, Jerusalem-based Detective Inspector Helen Mirkin is challenged with solving the murder of psychologist Dr. Danielle Hall. Before much progress is made, a second murder occurs. Are they related?

The investigation leads DI Mirkin to a state-of-the-art fertility clinic. How does this fit in? Is the killer trying to cover their tracks? Can they be stopped before more die?

Perfect for fans of the early Jonathan Kellerman and other psychological thrillers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Shidlo
• Release date: Feb 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9780988437913

Ruth Shidlo

Born in Portugal, Ruth Shidlo has also lived in Spain, Israel and the United States. She practices as a psychologist in Tel Aviv, and enjoys writing fiction and editing. Murder in the Choir is her second novel.

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDEGEMENTS

The author would like to thank the following publishing houses for permission to quote:

I Hate Music by Leonard Bernstein

© Copyright 1943 by M. Mitmark & Sons.

Renewed Warner Bros., Inc.

Leonard Bernstein Music Publishing Company LLC.

Boosey & Hawkes, Inc., Agents. All Rights Reserved

Reprinted by Permission.

Rabbit at Top Speed by Leonard Bernstein, words by Emile Dutoit

© Copyright 1949 by Amberson Holdings LLC.

Copyright Renewed.

Boosey & Hawkes, Inc., Sole Agent.

Reprinted by Permission.

Not Dark Yet

Written by Bob Dylan

Copyright © 1997 Special Rider Music.

All rights reserved.

International copyright secured.

Reprinted by permission.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot (1917).

Copyright © Estate of T.S. Eliot.

All rights reserved.

Reprinted by permission, Faber & Faber, Ltd., UK.

The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot (1922).

Copyright © Estate of T.S. Eliot.

All rights reserved.

Reprinted by permission, Faber & Faber Ltd., UK.

*

The author would also like to thank family and friends who provided encouragement and unwavering support over the years, some of whom read earlier versions of this work: first and foremost, Noa Shidlo, Ana Shidlo, Ariel Shidlo; Michal Or; Edith Mitrany, Chava (Eva) Katz, Nitza Kipper, Gaby Gruber Gur and Pamela Ruggieri.

In addition, thanks to Amanda Benjamin Cohen, Linda Daniel, Lara Zielinsky, Ruthie Almog, Sa’ar Plinner, Patty Henderson and Catherine Wilson for their professional suggestions and helpfulness along the way. Lastly, special thanks to Noa Shidlo for suggesting the lovely Renoir.

Rabbit at Top Speed

When you have a sudden guest, or you’re in an awful hurry, may I say, here’s a way to make a rabbit stew in no time. Take apart the rabbit in the ordinary way you do. Put it in a pot or in a casserole, or a bowl with all its liver mashed. Take half a pound of breast of pork, finely cut [as fine as possible]; add little onions with some pepper and salt [say twenty-five or so]; a bottle and a half of rich claret. Boil it up, don’t waste a minute, on the very hottest fire. When boiled a quarter of an hour or more the sauce should now be half of what it was before. Then you carefully apply a flame, as they do in the best, most expensive cafés. After the flame is out, just add the sauce to half a pound of butter with flour, and mix them together… and serve.

From Four Recipes, Leonard Bernstein

My Hoggie

What will I do gin my Hoggie die,

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie?

My only beast, I had nae mae,

And vow but I was vogie.

The lee-lang night we watch’d the fauld,

Me and my faithfu’ doggie;

We heard nocht but the roaring linn,

Amang the braes sae scroggie.

But the howlet cry’d frae the castle wa’,

The blitter frae the boggie,

The tod reply’d upon the hill,

I trembled for my Hoggie.

When day did daw, and the cocks did craw,

The morning it was foggie;

An unco tyke lap o’er the dyke,

And maist has killed my Hoggie.

Robert Burns

Contents

Floating Prologue (Part I)

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Floating Prologue (Part II)

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

Day Nine

About the Author

Floating Prologue (Part I)

She closed the refrigerator door, and locked up — she didn’t want anyone tampering with her precious research. It was her baby and she knew without a doubt that it would take her far. The sky was the limit, but she would settle for Sweden.

She was not someone to be taken lightly. Not on your life.

The gall of it. Not even a real doctor. Well, she’d better not get too close…

Divide and conquer was her motto. If it had been good enough for Julius Caesar, it would suffice for her. Real power did not fall in one’s lap — one had to grab it with both hands. Sometimes she’d used her teeth or elbows, or even her feet. All in all, she’d come a long way.

No one would stop her now. And that meant no one. Not even Calvito, for whom she still had a soft spot, despite everything that had transpired between them. Things could only go so far.

It had been quite a struggle moving here from Peru and starting from scratch among the Jews of Israel. Back home she had been pampered. Her Pappie and his old cronies had seen to that. Nothing had been too good for his little princeling. He had been used to having had his commands carried out back in the old country. When circumstances had changed, despite having become a fugitive (especially as time passed and he was not caught), he had resorted to his old ways. So had the Colonel and the others. The older they became, the more entitled they acted, as if others were there merely to serve them. They bought whatever their hearts desired from locals only too happy to oblige, for the money was good and they were dirt poor.

When she was old enough to understand, she realized she could not accept what he had done, decided she would not be like him. She would atone for his sins.

In time, she became a well-known figure in the little rural community amidst the mountains. Whenever a goat was hurt, the peasants would present her with it, trusting her to nurture it back to health. La Alemana, they called her, amongst themselves.

She decided to become a doctor. Perhaps she could undo some of the harm her predecessors, especially her father, had done. Well, to undo was beyond her, but she would carry out the Hippocratic Oath to the full.

Day One

1

On a cool, crisp Jerusalem morning, the call of the tardy hen punctured the lazy quiet, inviting drowsy cats to stretch their legs before the tractor-like racket of determined leaf blowers drowned out the semblance of tranquility.

Grateful for the quiet, I listened to the early morning broadcast from the Voice of Music while wading through a pile of work I’d brought home. After a long while, I got up to fix myself a cup of Turkish coffee. I was standing impatiently next to the stove, waiting for the rich brew in the small finjan to boil, when the phone rang.

Helen? I recognized the unmistakable gravelly voice of my boss Captain Tamir, the police chief.

Adam? Hang on a sec, I said, stretching to reach the volume knob, killing the mezzo-soprano soaring above the chorus in Respighi’s glorious celebration of the birth of Christ.

Listen, there’s been a shooting. Moriah asked us to handle it. A body was found in the Wohl Rose Park ten minutes ago — a jogger called it in. Officer Yarkoni is on his way to secure the scene. How soon can you get there?

I’m on my way. I turned off the gas stove and took a swig of mineral water. The coffee would wait. Shedding my shorts and old T-shirt where I stood, I threw on my street clothes and ran a brush through my hair before locking up and zipping down the U-shaped stone staircase. Once ensconced in my emerald Compass Jeep, I shifted into gear and zoomed up the hill.

Leaving Shmaryahu Levin Street, I headed toward the hotel district and made a right just before the Renaissance, a sprawling, newly renovated stucco high-rise building, which seemed out of sync with the Jerusalem skyline; then sailed on until I reached the Rose Park.

Still early, this part of town was relatively free of traffic for Jerusalem Day, a day of festivities and the reason I’d planned to work from home.

2

07:30

From afar, the revolving lights of the blue-and-white sedan were visible but blurred and the late spring morning assumed a dreamlike, surrealistic quality.

Curious onlookers were gathered near the police car.

Morning, DI Mirkin. Having climbed the steps two at a time, I flashed my badge towards the solitary policeman on guard before realizing we’d once met. Another uniformed policeman joined me, directing me toward the cordoned-off scene in the arbor near the pond.

A trickling rivulet of blood still seeped through the limestone. A few feet further a crumpled body lay sprawled across the path. The dead woman’s arms were spread out against the earth, a bruised and swollen cheek grazed by a jutting rock in the shorn grass, her face disfigured like a Picasso painting. An eye peered unseeingly at me from a head lying cushioned in grass. Her white bandana had slipped from cropped hair; stained with fresh blood, it proclaimed surrender with both bang and whimper.

Despite having been a homicide detective for the past seven years and even longer on the force, I still felt that familiar, palpable tension when face-to-face with death at its most concrete. It did not get easier with time and whether I wanted to or not, I was forced anew to face the hour of my own death — if only fleetingly, the eternal Footman snickering.

Although no signs of struggle were evident, it was too early to tell with certainty. Turning toward Officer Yarkoni, whom the dispatcher had sent, I asked: So Dan, an early morning jogger notified you of the shooting?

Yes, a Mr. Moshe Mizrahi called it in, practically hyperventilating. Had never seen a dead body before. He was sitting head down, hands over his ears, on one of those benches over there when I got here, he gestured. Here’s his name and work number. Yarkoni handed me a piece of paper.

I gave it a quick glance before tucking it away in my pocket. Thanks. It couldn’t have happened that long ago — the blood on the bandana is bright red, I said, bending down to get a closer look.

Yeah. See the point of entry here, just above the back of the neck? He pointed in the general direction of the blood, which had stained the grass under her neck and continued along the limestone path.

Right. The murderer stood behind her. I looked around to see whether I could pinpoint exactly where. Possibly over there, on those steps? I added and went toward them, looking for shell casings and other telltale whispers of malfeasance. Twelve steps later, I realized a metal detector would be necessary, given the proliferating ivy. Fetching it from my kit, I was rewarded when it sounded — a .22mm empty cartridge that I promptly bagged.

Looks like she was in the prime of life, called Yarkoni, bending over the woman. The waste of it. He straightened up, looking slightly queasy.

Returning to the body, I bent down to get another close look. I didn’t comment on the untidy hole in her occipital lobe that the bullet had created, which appeared consistent with a small-caliber weapon. What was there to say?

Except that the bullet hadn’t come out through the other side.

Then I noticed some strange markings on her scalp, visible through her cropped hair.

Yarkoni had seen them too. Weird. What are they?

Simulation markings, I think. To prepare a cancer patient for radiation therapy. The bullet never came out — see? — no exit wound. Except for the bruising, her face and neck are intact. It felled her.

Looks like this lady was doomed, huh? exclaimed Yarkoni, shaking his head mournfully. Both cancer and a trigger-happy-murderer on the loose… some people have no luck.

Yup… Crantz’ll get it out. Interesting to see what he’ll have to say.

Who’s Crantz?

Sorry, forgot you’re not with Major Crimes — the medical examiner.

I wouldn’t be able to do what you do, day in and day out. He grimaced, before continuing, What do you say — d’you think it could have been a terrorist?

Hard to tell yet. Events with a nationalistic background aren’t usually one-offs, are they?

How about suicide?

No. I don’t think she could have shot herself from the back.

Of course not. He laughed, embarrassed at his ignorance in these matters. This was a far cry from what he usually did.

There was no handbag nearby. Going through the victim’s pockets felt somewhat intrusive but was necessary. We were a relatively small task force, which meant multitasking and familiarity with various aspects of detection and crime-scene analysis. Jerusalem was not Las Vegas.

I found a folded envelope, addressed to a Sheila Morenica-Hall of a local street, hidden in one of Jerusalem’s picturesque neighborhoods. I thought of how, against its will, Beit HaKerem was being invaded by the new freeway under construction. Ever since the rains had abated several weeks before, the pace of this unwelcome alteration had picked up.

When the photographer had taken her mandatory pictures and was packing her tripod, I allowed the corpse to be taken to the morgue by two attendants, newly arrived. As they lifted the dead woman, shrouded in black plastic and supine on the stretcher, her hand fell out, revealing an unusual and beautifully wrought wedding ring.

It seemed to open a window to the dead woman’s life, and I felt a twinge of sadness and regret for all that was irretrievably and wastefully lost, as I contemplated her hand, delicate yet strong; her fingers thin and elongated, such as a pianist might yearn for. Her fingernails were neatly trimmed and unvarnished, suggesting she had little use for frivolity and self-indulgence and liked herself as she was. The ring revealed, too, an appreciation of things classical, and even in death, lent her a feminine look. It felt like the ring of a loved woman. Her jeweled hand lent an aura of dignity to the degradation inherent in becoming a corpse, when the variegated themes, which were one’s life suddenly underwent diminution, like in a fugue, and the score, silenced forever, was packed into a plastic bag and dispatched to the morgue and the pathologist’s brain salad surgery.

Might help identify her, both Yarkoni and I uttered simultaneously, looking at each other, a joyless Greek chorus.

I told Yarkoni I would take it from there, but he elected to stay. While wishing my partner, Ohad, was with me, I nonetheless welcomed any help I could get. Yarkoni made a sweep of the adjacent area, beginning with some nearby dustbins.

Mounting the stone stairway, I walked to the observation point above the pond, making sure I wasn’t stepping on any footprints. Two birds chirped away on one of the acorn trees nearby. The fragrant perfume of roses spiced the air. Suddenly it felt good to be alive, momentarily cleansed from the pervading sights and smells of death, with which I was overly familiar. I looked around me. A few feet below, something floating on the muddy water next to a straggly water lily caught my eye.

Moments later, I was crouching beside the floating object and looking around for something with which to fish it out. Careful not to get my cross-trainers too wet, I used a discarded garden hosepipe.

It was a soggy appointment book and I noticed someone had stuck a stork sticker on the vinyl cover, currently nesting somewhat lopsidedly just above the letters CH, City Hospital’s insignia.

Eagerly, I attempted to pry open its pages, but they stuck together, stubbornly resisting my efforts. I stopped short of damaging them even further, and placed them on a large rock. Meanwhile, Yarkoni, having just returned from his short search, came up to take a look, noisily sucking some candy he said he’d found on the semi-circular bench near where the body was found.

Apple-flavored, he said, offering me some, but I declined. Who ate unsolicited candy left by an unknown person on a public bench? It wasn’t as though he were starving. I also wondered how he could possibly do so under the circumstances that brought us together. Better save it for Forensics, I suggested mildly. It might be evidence.

Spitting it out, he exclaimed, Too sour, anyway.

I smiled. He should have known better.

A dirty, gray crow cackled nearby on a patch of browning grass.

Some of it might be legible once it dries out, Yarkoni commented, referring to the appointment book, which might or might not be part of the physical evidence.

I silently wondered whether the book’s immersion in water represented a deliberate attempt to efface its words. Discolored ink, fading away under murky waters. How I wanted to visualize the scene before me, before the curtain had dropped.

As though he had read my mind, Yarkoni said, Assuming it belonged to her, I wonder if the woman had something to hide? If so, from whom?

"Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together," I quoted.

What?

"But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded…"

What the hell’s that?

And then it struck me: might the woman first have met someone else, the appointment book an epitaph from a previous scene? The shooter, perched above the waterfall, observing, biding time? Her companion gone, the woman, thinking herself alone, remaining in the garden until the interceptor pounced, and the brute shot of a well-chosen bullet shattered the quietude and her life.

"He who was living is now dead…

Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop"

Questions, questions, everywhere.

Helen? You with me?

Listen, I have some things to mull over. I really appreciate your help. See you.

Yarkoni shrugged his shoulders and after a slight hesitation left, obviously feeling let down or even slighted.

Hoping he hadn’t taken offense where none was intended, I walked through the grasses near the pond, an area too ample to be cordoned off. My thoughts were interrupted when I noticed a young woman bending down to pick up something. I strode up to her, wondering whether it could be evidence related to the investigation.

She flashed me a big smile, revealing a missing front tooth. Seemed oblivious to what had happened, presumably had wandered here after my colleagues had packed up and left the scene. In her cupped hand, she held some berries, then raising her hand, pointed to the trees above, their boughs heavy with berries, some white, some pink, others purple-black.

Disappointed it wasn’t trace evidence, I nonetheless popped one into my mouth. Delicious, I said, picking yet another.

She smiled again.

Have you been here long?

She seemed surprised by my question. Oh, no… I just got here. My son’s kindergarten is due soon, and I thought I’d come early, lend his teachers a hand.

Have you seen anything unusual since you got here?

Like what?

Anything to set you wondering — maybe someone in a hurry, or hiding?

Sorry, Ma’am. No — I haven’t.

Right. Well, thanks anyway. I moved on toward the kill spot, feeling the woman’s eyes on my back. I sensed she was puzzled by my questions.

Upon reaching the area, I contemplated the victim’s fate, her life derailed so brutally while in her prime. "I will find the killer," I vowed silently, climbing a few steps. Standing roughly where I believed the murderer had stood, given the point of entry of the fatal bullet and the location of the empty casing, I tried to get a feel for what had gone down. Had the murderer attempted concealment among the rosebushes, or stood tall and erect on the bare steps? The former would have required greater marksmanship because of the arbor below.

I then noticed something I hadn’t seen earlier. Curious, on a fresh surge of adrenalin, I swooped down the remaining stairs, quickly reaching the semi-circle of benches, now shaded by the yellow rosebushes that covered the latticed wooden roof. It was behind them, on a little slope, well away from the stairs that overlooked the pond that a clump of white rosebushes stood. Between two, caught by a thorn, there was a snag of fabric.

Moving closer, looking out for possible footprints so as not to contaminate the scene, I disentangled the snippet from the recalcitrant thorn and examined it. It felt like a fine fabric, probably real silk. Was it the murderer’s? Bagging it, my mind raced ahead, while my foot crunched on something half-buried under the leaves. I bent over to pick it up. A green pillbox. Wondering whether it had belonged to the same person, a reasonable assumption given their proximity in an area not normally frequented, I retrieved it and zip-locked it. However much one sought them out, it was all too easy to miss vital clues out in the open, one of the many reasons why teamwork was important. Any chance you heard that Ohad?

An hour later and despite my ever-widening concentric sweep of the park, my search had failed to disclose either a purse or a briefcase. By now gloveless and just about ready to leave, I chanced upon a totally unexpected sight — that of a peacock attempting to eat a red apple someone had dropped. It kept getting stuck on its beak and then falling as he pecked at it again.

I grinned at the comical sight. An image of a peacock carrying a briefcase fluttered through my mind — wouldn’t that be lovely… Time to go deposit the still-wet appointment book, pillbox and fabric with the forensic lab.

The questions that had emerged clamored for resolution: Was this a random killing? Or in view of the victim’s cancer, a misguided, so-called mercy killing? Was the owner of the ring murdered because of who she was, what she knew, or what she was about to do? Had someone (a jilted lover, perhaps) decided to silence her once and for all? Had the appointment book marked the appointed hour for the woman to meet her would-be killer? Lastly I wondered just how the news would be met, and by whom.

I left the scene of the crime then called Adam Tamir, providing him with the bare bones about the case, before driving to the address on the envelope, which was near the park. Passing an ivy-covered government building, I made a left onto Yitzchak Rabin Boulevard and then Herzl, before entering Beit HaKerem, the quiet residential neighborhood where the Morenica-Hall family lived.

3

10:00

Reaching my destination swiftly, I parked next to the small three-story building, and went to check the old-fashioned mailboxes, where mail peeks out and there are few secrets. The air felt brisk and cool, and I could smell honeysuckle and jasmine. It didn’t take long to find the Morenica-Hall family.

Climbing up the stairs to number 7, the name plaque stood out, rainbow-colored and jolly, clearly hand-painted by a small child.

I knocked on the wooden door. Initially no one answered.

I had started to retreat down the stairs when a small voice said, Just a minute.

I heard something being dragged and bumping into the door, and I turned toward the sound. Again, a dragging sound, and then the door opened to reveal a huge tomcat and a red-haired little girl with the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen: she looked about seven years old. Suddenly wanting to keep her world whole, I hoped against all odds not to be the bearer of bad news.

Hi, said the little pixie, smiling at me with friendly self-confidence.

Hi, I smiled back. May I speak to your Mummy or Daddy, please?

There’s no one home right now, said the little girl. Sasha went downstairs. Who are you?

Detective Inspector Helen Mirkin, I said, and showed her my badge. Who’s Sasha?

Just like on TV, she said, happily. There’s this series I like — Fritz the Detective? He’s this neat cat, you know? Anyway he also shows his ID when he introduces himself.

I see, I answered, amused, and repeated my question.

Sasha’s our housekeeper. I haven’t got a daddy, I have two mummies, continued the little girl, Danielle and Mira. They’re both at work. I stayed home today because I’ve got a sore throat. So does Ginger.

I see, I said, relieved that neither mother was called Sheila. But that relief lasted only a minute, for just as I was about to ask her name, the girl added: My name is Sheila. Sheila Morenica-Hall.

My heart skipped a beat.

Honey, could you give me their phone numbers at work? I need to talk to them.

What for? Did they do something wrong?

Sometimes the police need to investigate certain matters. It doesn’t necessarily mean someone did something wrong, I answered gently.

It’s hard to get hold of Danielle. She works at the hospital but doesn’t have an office. There aren’t enough rooms. It’s easier to get Mira. But sometimes she’s in rehearsal and they won’t let me talk to her.

Where does Mira work?

At the Opera.

In Tel Aviv?

Yes, said Sheila. Have you ever been there?

Sure, I told her, "I love the Opera. Have you ever gone there with your mummies?"

"Lots of times. I even saw Hansel and Gretel once… it was scary."

Because of the wicked witch?

"You’ve seen it?"

Sure, I replied.

Someone was briskly climbing up the stairs. A young woman dressed in crisply ironed blue jeans, her hair neatly and tightly wound up in two thin braids, appeared, carrying an empty trash bin. She looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Her braids followed her gaze when she moved her head.

Sheila, who’re you talking to? she asked, perhaps more sharply than she’d intended. You shouldn’t open the door when alone!

I jumped in before Sheila could respond: DI Helen Mirkin, Major Crimes Division. You must be Sasha.

The young woman examined my police ID, comparing me with my photograph before returning it. She relaxed visibly.

She wants to speak with Danielle or Mira, said Sheila excitedly. She’s investigating something, like Fritz. You know, Sasha, that cat-detective.

I went to throw out the trash, explained Sasha, clearly needing to justify her absence. Both Mira and Danielle are at work. They left early this morning. I’m the housekeeper. What’s the problem?

I need to talk to them about something, I said neutrally, deliberately skirting her question. When did they leave?

Well, by the time I arrived at 7:30 a.m., Danielle had already left for the hospital. She goes to work early. Sheila was still asleep, and Mira waited till the last possible moment to say goodbye. Would you care to leave a message? Maybe one of them will call in.

Sheila was about to give me their phone numbers when you arrived, so actually, I’d appreciate having them please, so I can give them a call.

Wait a minute, said Sheila, as she ran off importantly, Ginger briskly following her.

"What is she up to? muttered Sasha. You must be in a hurry," she added apologetically, turning towards me, and taking my pen, jotting down the numbers on the blank side of a flyer she’d apparently found in the mailbox, advertising professional upholstery and carpenter services. Apparently, each woman used her own name at work, rather than the hyphenated family name, which was quite a mouthful.

That’s okay, I said soothingly, as Sheila returned carrying her photograph album. Thanks. It seemed that her connection with Fritz the Detective had helped her bond with me; she was surprisingly forthcoming as she produced her album.

I want to show you something. Sasha, can she come in a minute? Please…

Sasha looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and said, As you wish. Clearly, she wasn’t too thrilled, but neither did she wish to offend the detective.

Following them into the hall and on into the kitchen, we both sat at the pine table next to a large bay window that looked out into the building’s garden, full of old elm trees, tall grass, and impudent daffodils, lavishly spreading their scent and growing in clumps wherever they pleased, as if without a care in the world. On the window ledge were jars of homemade pickles, olives, and tiny round lemons. The kitchen itself was squeaky clean, painted a soft creamy color, framed photographs of various fruits adorning its walls. Luscious green ferns fell from above one of the cupboards.

I looked at the album that Sheila had opened, wondering whether I might come across someone I knew, given that the gay and lesbian community in Jerusalem is small.

This is Mira, said Sheila. A slim, smiling woman with raven black hair and green eyes, of medium height was affectionately hugging Sheila, four or five years old, who had her little arm around her, as far as she could reach.

And this is Danielle, said Sheila, bubbling with pride and excitement, pointing to her other Mummy. I was little then. We were on vacation.

Her blue eyes alive with youthful energy, her freckles dancing in the sun, a woman with shoulder-length hair was hugging both her partner and her daughter. Sheila was in the middle, looking happy and contained and proud. Danielle had clearly just descended from the chestnut mare she was holding by the reins with her free hand. She seemed to be someone who enjoyed life to the hilt. Neither Ms. Morenica-Hall looked much like the dead woman I had just seen in the park, but then, they rarely did.

Do you have more pictures, of when you’re older?

Yes, this one. We don’t take many pictures anymore, said Sheila a bit wistfully pointing to another. Perched on Danielle’s knee, Sheila looked pensive, as though in another world which fascinated her completely, while Danielle read her a story. Danielle, too,